Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Sure. You always were a bad liar.”

  “That’s a lie!” Silva denied, indignantly. “You’d be amazed what I’ve got away with lately!”

  Horn chuckled quietly, but looked back at Lawrence. “Say, what the hell’s he scritchin’ on? He got a case of the jitters?”

  “Not much gives my little lizard buddy pause,” Silva stated. “He’s just manicurin’ his claws.”

  “Sharpening them?” Horn guessed.

  “Nah. Dullin’ a few of ’em up on a rock. He does that now and then to handle cartridges for his rifle better. His finger claws ain’t as big as a Grik’s, but they can make ’eem fumble a bit. He rakes ’em off to where his finger pads can get a grip. Not as likely to set his damn rifle off by accident either.”

  “Huh.” Horn settled back. “A real bad liar, if I recall,” he continued.

  “Maybe I’ve took a stone to that skill,” Silva defended.

  “You didn’t beat the rap at the Fourth Marines Club in Shanghai,” Horn reminded, and they both chuckled. “I think you broke every specification under Rule Nine: intoxication, misconduct, destruction of club property, skylarking! What the hell’s that?”

  “I think it’s aimed mostly at Navy men,” Dennis snorted.

  “Then they tacked on ‘objectionable conduct’! I figured misconduct would’ve covered that.”

  “They just threw that in because somebody objected extra loud to my misconduct.”

  Horn looked at I’joorka, who was staring at them. “Got us both thrown out of the club for good!” he explained. “Not that it mattered. Lotsa better places to kick up your heels in Shanghai.” I’joorka nodded politely, but had no clue what they were talking about. Horn frowned. “Not counting the fight with the super lizard and the Akashis, since those just fell on us, this’ll be the first fight we’ve been in together since that goose pull-down on Soochow Creek.”

  “We got a medal for that,” Dennis practically giggled.

  “Shoosh!” Lawrence hissed.

  “Shoosh yerself!” Dennis whispered back. “We can hear you preenin’ yer nails from here!” He eyed Horn. “Course, that one wasn’t real.”

  “They might’ve given us real medals if it wouldn’t’ve pissed off half the world,” Horn reminded.

  Silva’s smile faded. “Yeah.”

  They both sat silent after that, contemplating an anecdotal episode that they alone in all the world—except Dean Laney, whom neither liked—remembered, and the only sounds were buzzing, rattling insects, punctuated by the harsh shrieks of night creatures. Then, suddenly, from half a mile out over the water came the muffled but distinctive clattering burrrrup! of Pam’s Blitzer Bug. Lawrence tensed, but it didn’t look like any of the Japanese paid much attention until it came again, and heads began to bob behind the perimeter breastworks.

  Silva shifted back to look for himself. “Damn it, I hope Cook heard that!”

  He must have, because just then, whether he was ready to attack or not, a terrible ululating screech arose, gathering voices until it thundered all around the enemy camp. More heads bobbed, but then, with a muffled, whickering hiss, hundreds of crossbow bolts and arrows streaked through the dark, slashing across the firelight. Some must’ve found a mark, because terrified, agonized shrieks and cries erupted here and there. A machine gun stuttered. Then another.

  Gunny Horn hefted his BAR in his left hand and absently patted the belt of magazine pouches encircling his torso. Dennis nodded to himself and slid the triangular bayonet out of the scabbard he’d added to his pistol belt and quietly affixed it to the muzzle of his borrowed rifle, twisting it until it latched on the front sight lug, then turning the locking ring. Lawrence had already fixed his bayonet, and his yellowish eyes glowed in the light of the fires and sudden, flashing shots as he stared back at Dennis. I’joorka had a crossbow, like most of his warriors, and he edged forward. The woods behind him were filled with shifting, jostling, whispering Khonashis as they prepared for their part in the attack.

  The Japanese perimeter was becoming a place of nervous chaos. Sailors awakened by the growing fight on the south breastworks dashed out of shelters, carrying Arisaka rifles and even a few spears. An officer hurried them along, waving a sword. Several men snatched up a light machine gun at the foot of the gangplank and awkwardly carried it and two crates of ammunition toward the sound of battle.

  “That’s handy,” Silva murmured. “Didn’t even suspect that one.” He frowned. “How many of the damn things do they have?”

  “Figure one on the other side of the perimeter, like the one in front of us. That one . . . and it sounds like maybe three more already shooting. Six, at least. I guess that’s about right, but they may still have some mounted on the ship.” He looked at I’joorka. “Remember what to do?”

  The Khonashi jerked his head in agreement.

  “Then good luck.”

  “No such t’ing as yuck,” I’joorka said. He grasped a handful of leafy, moldy turf. “This is the skin o’ our God,” he said, then gestured around. “The trees is his crest. He is ours. Jaaphs is like nasty ticks, an’ us gotta yank they out!”

  “Okay. Well . . . happy yankin’,” Dennis said dubiously, and looked at Horn. “I thought I was gettin’ used to runnin’ into crackpot religions, but dirt worshippers?” he said when I’joorka moved down to the very edge of the trees.

  “Who cares, as long as they’re on our side?” Horn replied. “I figure a fella can pray to a toad as long as he doesn’t try to make me do it.”

  “But that’s always the itch, ain’t it?”

  Before Silva or Horn could continue their theological discussion, something neither was particularly comfortable with, I’joorka trilled a distinctive, hair-raising cry unlike anything they’d heard before. It was like a Grik war cry in a way, but it was a singular thing, unaccompanied by thousands of voices, like Dennis had always heard before. He stood, along with Horn and Lawrence, and most of I’joorka’s force burst from the trees and down to the beach, where they quickly formed a ragged line. At another shrill cry, every crossbow and longbow was raised and pointed at the Japanese machine-gun position about seventy yards away. Without any further command, the missiles were released in a whickering wave of twanging strings or clacking rollers, and a hundred bolts and arrows converged on the suddenly terrified, staring Japanese machine gunners. The sharp projectiles festooned the area around the weapon—and the half dozen men within. Only one even managed a scream.

  “Let’s go!” Silva roared, and he, Horn, Lawrence, and ten human Khonashis armed with longbows and swords charged through I’joorka’s troops toward the Japanese perimeter. Other longbowmen joined them as they passed, and Silva shouted, “Even better than a grenade!” as he ran by I’joorka. The Khonashi war leader was already trilling for his warriors to launch another flight of bolts beyond their initial aiming point.

  Lawrence reached the gun pit first but saw nothing alive. He immediately detailed several men to turn the weapon south. Horn’s BAR hammered up the line at Japanese firing down the breastworks. A Khonashi man screamed and fell, then another. Dennis jumped down beside the machine gun and looked at it for a second. He snatched a pair of paint-daubed men to help him. “One o’ those Type Eleven heaps,” he declared. “Okay, I’m a little rusty on these, but here goes!” He felt in the hopper mounted on the side of the weapon to ensure it was loaded, then racked the bolt back. Settling down behind the buttstock, he aimed up the perimeter as best he could and squeezed the trigger. The thing didn’t kick at all, with its bipod and relatively light 6.5-millimeter cartridges, but the report of his three- and four-round bursts echoed back from the trees with a harsh, crackling rush. “Crap! No tracers!” he complained, but he hadn’t really expected them. The Type 11 was designed to be loaded with standard five-round stripper clips, the same that Japanese rifles used, fed in the hopper. The incoming fire tapered off, and Dennis stood and flung one of the men he’d grabbed behind the gun.

  “You speak
ee English?” he demanded.

  “Some . . . little . . .”

  “Good enough. You’re a machine gunner now. No! Put the butt to your shoulder, not under your damn arm! There! Keep that knob up there in the notch, if you can see it, and put it on the Japs! Short bursts—just squeeze the trigger and let it go. It’s up to you to keep those bastards back.” He grabbed the other man. “See these clips?” he demanded, snatching one from the metal crate. “Keep stackin’ ’em in the hopper here, like this.” He demonstrated. He got the gunner’s attention again. “When it jams or quits shootin’—an’ it will—just yank this bolt back and try again.” He looked around at the Khonashis Lawrence had detailed to assist. “You keep the Japs off ’em with your bows.” He waved at a couple of rifles lying in the pit. “Don’t fool with those. You’ll get killed while you’re trying to figure ’em out.” He pointed at the Type 11. “But if that thing quits and you can’t get it goin’ again, throw it in the water, if it’s the last thing you ever do!” With that, he raced after Lawrence and Gunny Horn, who’d already charged forward with I’joorka’s advancing ranks. I’joorka was shouting something that must’ve meant “Here, here,” as he placed Khonashis in a skirmish line in the brush along the shore. They were nearly invisible against the dark water and should be able to discourage any enemies that got past the machine gun and tried to come around behind them.

  Silva moved among the trees alongside the big Japanese destroyer, which was snugged to a makeshift timber dock. Horn’s BAR hammered up ahead in the tangle of wooden cranes and camouflage, and Lawrence’s rifle boomed and flashed. Other muzzle flashes sparkled in the dark amid a swirl of foreign, alien shouts and screams, and the clash of steel as swords met rifle barrels and bayonets. Wood shattered, and blizzards of splinters flew as a heavy automatic weapon on the ship joined the fight with pounding, thunderous reports, but its crew had to be careful because the melee had become so mixed. Dennis saw a Japanese sailor right in front of him, aiming his rifle at somebody, and he slammed his bayonet into the exposed chest behind the man’s elbow. There was a scream, and Silva twisted his rifle away and thrust again, even as the man crumpled to the ground. Another man ran at him and nearly got shot before they both realized they were on the same side. The dark man made a strange, apologetic gesture, then turned and vanished in the night.

  “Dennis! Dennis!” Lawrence was shouting, and Silva hurried to catch his friend. The lizard was panting, his tongue lolling, bayonet black with blood. Horn’s BAR slashed at a stuttering gun through the tree cranes, and Dennis realized it must be the one they’d seen carried away. “Quit skylarking,” Lawrence admonished. He must’ve been listening earlier. “Us gotta get on the shi’ afore the Jaaphs get their shit in their socks!” he shouted over the noise.

  “What’s up the ramp?”

  “There’s no ’achine gun!”

  “How ’bout that? Where’s I’joorka? I’joorka!” he yelled.

  “Here!”

  Small exploding shells erupted among them, shattering trees and bodies and throwing clouds of sand in the air. Dennis spat bloody grit and dragged Lawrence from the dubious protection of a teetering tree he’d ducked behind. “We gotta silence that big boy up there, that twenty-five millimeter, or it’ll chew us up on the gangplank!” A bullet splintered the butt of Silva’s rifle and snatched it out of his hand.

  “Goddammit, Gunny. Can’t you shut that machine gun up? We need you to put fire on that gun tub up there!” He pointed high amidships on the destroyer.

  “I’m doing my best!” Horn yelled, dropping an empty magazine and fumbling for another.

  “Then quit goofin’ around an’ do better! I’joorka,” Dennis cried, “try and do what you done before! Get as many arrows as you can to fall in that tub up yonder!”

  “I try. It hard to gather Khonashis! They get lost in dark an’ killing!”

  Silva thought there were forty or so warriors present. “Do it with these! As soon as you shoot, we go up! The arrows ought to at least keep their heads down long enough for us to board!” He pulled his precious.45 and placed it in his left hand, then drew his 1917 Navy cutlass. “Give the word or hoot or whatever you do!”

  Another burst of 25-millimeter fire sprayed the trees, a little to the side, but I’joorka raised his odd cry again and added what must’ve been instructions. A final cry loosed the arrows, and Silva flipped his head so his helmet would lay farther back. “Let’s go!” he roared. The long gangplank connected the dock to Hidoiame just forward of amidships on her starboard side, and it juddered and bounced under running feet. A Japanese sailor appeared at the top, rifle at port arms. His expression showed amazement, then terror that the attackers had already made it this far. He had no time to register another thought before Silva’s first pistol shot struck him below his left eye. Another sailor was behind him, but the falling body kept him from raising his rifle in the confined space. Silva shot him too, then bolted left, toward the elevated gun platforms aft. A dozen yipping Khonashis followed. Lawrence turned right, leaping the bodies, and charged forward with his own squad, his bayonet leveled before him.

  Gunny Horn’s BAR pounded the night and finally silenced the Japanese machine gun, but the weapon they’d captured earlier went quiet as well. The sound of battle was still growing, however, and at least one more of the perimeter guns had gone down. Dennis resheathed his cutlass and scrambled up the damp iron rungs of a ladder. The arrows from below had stopped, and the surviving gunners on the .25 were starting to peer over the lip of the steel tub when Silva jumped in from behind, his 1911 Colt already barking. The gunners sprawled on the bloody deck, joining two others with arrows in their bodies.

  “Quick!” Dennis roared at the Khonashis who’d followed his charge. “Check the other tubs!” He pointed in case they didn’t understand. He stabbed the magazine release button with his thumb, and the empty magazine clattered on the deck. His left hand had already grabbed a full one from his pouch, and he slammed it in the well. Lawrence’s.50-80 rifle boomed forward and smoke drifted aft in the dim light of an open porthole. Dennis quickly scanned his surroundings. There was a screech from a nearby gun tub, quickly silenced by ringing swords. More rifle fire erupted near the fantail, and small, high-velocity bullets crackled past. He couldn’t worry about that. His squad of Khonashis would have to deal with it. He started to try to bring the 25mm up to support the attack in the woods, but realized he couldn’t do that either! The jungle battle around and within the perimeter was a seething, chaotic mess. He was almost sure Abel’s force, at least, had broken through on its right, but it had become impossible to differentiate targets. Even where he knew the Japanese were, he couldn’t shoot the powerful weapon without risking friendlies beyond! He swore.

  Horn’s muzzle flashes were at the top of the ramp now, pulsing outward. He would’ve come up as a rear guard, Dennis was certain, which meant most of their boarding party had to be on the ship. He wondered if that meant there were seventy or eighty of them, or just ten or twelve by now. He snatched at a Khonashi lizard running aft. “I’joorka?” He shouted. The warrior waved behind him, and Silva saw the creature. At least he thought it was him. “I’joorka? Is that you?”

  The warrior joined him, breathing hard. “It is I.”

  “Good.” Silva waved at the cluster of gun tubs. “We can’t use these—too dangerous to our folks—but you gotta keep the Japs from takin’ ’em back!”

  “I do it!”

  “Swell! I’m goin’ forward. You keep an eye on the companionways too. There’s bound to be Japs below, tryin’ to sneak up at us.”

  “Yes! Good!”

  Dennis pushed his slide release, chambering another round in his Colt, then hopped the tub and ran back the way he’d come. Horn was lying prone on the deck beside the two sailors Dennis killed, but two more had been piled across the gangplank and Horn was using them for protection and a rest. Beside him, two men were trying to figure out the second Type 11 they must have captured, and several
crossbowmen were covering them.

  “Hey, Gunny,” Silva called.

  “Hey, yourself,” Horn shouted between bursts. “This is the most goofed-up fight I’ve been in since I don’t know when!”

  “Yeah. Ain’t a patch to some I’ve seen lately. Kind of a hoot, though, huh?”

  “You always were nuts. Get down, wilya, before some Jap knocks your noodle off.”

  “I gotta check on Larry, forward,” Silva replied. “I’joorka’s gonna finish clearin’ the topside, aft. You just keep any more Japs from gettin’ aboard.”

  “You got it.”

  Silva trotted forward, his boondockers making remarkably little noise on the linoleum-covered deck. He’d seen Amagi while they were breaking her up, and the scorched-and-melted linoleum had been a surprise at the time, but he kind of expected it now. It was probably handy with the right shoes, he reflected, but slick under his leather soles. “Japs are so weird,” he muttered, seeing another unidentifiable fixture attached to the deck. No doubt it did something, but why couldn’t it look like anything it ought to do? At that moment he was all alone, though he could hear fighting ahead. He passed every hatch and port with care, half expecting shots from within, but so far there didn’t seem to be anyone belowdecks. There had to be Jap snipes aboard! At least one boiler was lit to power the pumps and the few lights he’d seen. Maybe they’d already come up and had their go?

  He clambered up the stairs to the long, raised fo’c’sle, and almost tripped over a pile of bodies lying in a twisted, bloody heap. There were Japs and Khonashis there, but no Lawrence, he was glad to see. There was another boom ahead, muffled, maybe inside the long, narrow bridge structure, followed by the dull popping of a semiauto pistol. He darted through a hatch—and right in the middle of a brawl. Two Khonashis lay dead or hurt just inside the cramped space, but the rest, five or six, had closed with their enemies before the pistols could overwhelm their swords. The lizardlike Khonashis used their teeth and claws just like Grik, and Silva couldn’t help feeling an inner, visceral twinge. He saw Larry then, pinning a man to a bulkhead with his bayonet, wailing with a vocal savagery he’d never seen in the little guy. Larry was a killing fiend when it came down to it, but he was usually quieter about it.